


bitch you guessed it [you was right]

by pagan_mint



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Gen, I did Actual Research for this, Memes, This probably qualifies as crack, Turn back while you still can, heed the sign that says beware, i can't believe i'm actually posting this, so please for the love of God leave a comment, there goes my Brand(TM)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 06:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15090857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagan_mint/pseuds/pagan_mint
Summary: "What we're talking about is really more of an aura, a vibe. There are men with Big Dicks, but who do not ooze BDE. There are men with average to little ones who can have so much BDE you’re surprised to find that their wang does not touch their knee.” - Allison Davis in an article for "The Cut" defining Big Dick Energy





	bitch you guessed it [you was right]

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from that one song everyone used on vine. you know the one. if you don't know, or if vine was before your time, get out. you're too young to be here. you're too young to know what BDE is. hell, even I don't know what it is, and I wrote whatever this is. memes are the curse that millennials must bear

 

Jacob Seed talks like he’s in a hurry. Every word is clipped, carefully chosen, his sentences precise and meaningful.

So it’s a mystery, Rook thinks, as to how a man who talks to fast can drag on for so damn _long_.

She watches him absently while he monologues. If she was actually seated somewhere instead of sprawled inside a dirty cage, she’d be resting her head on her hand. Jacob’s muscles tighten as he turns; he’s wearing a _very_ snug-fitting, regulation-Army-green shirt, so she gets to watch them ripple like little ocean waves up one arm, across his chest, then down the other, into the fingers of his left hand as he curls them into a fist. A fist that’s hanging near his waist, so she continues the visual tour – thighs like tree trunks, set in a purposeful sir-yes-sir stance of attention, ending in boring boots bigger than both of her feet put together.

“Woof,” Rook huffs out, interrupting him. “Has anyone ever told you that you’ve got some _big_ dick energy going on? 

She’s never seen him open the box that fast before. 

* * *

“WHAT,” John erupts into the radio channel, “is ‘ _big dick energy?_ ’”

Rook stands from where she was crouching in the middle of the crop circle. “Listen. You’re kind of busy. _I’m_ kind of busy. We don’t have to have this conversation. Not now. Not ever.”

“Don’t brush me off, _deputy_ ,” he snaps. He always draws her title out like it’s an exotic foreign word that he has to sound out monosyllabically. Or maybe he’s just a thirsty bitch, and saying it that way is his attempt at being seductive. He doesn’t seem like much of a straight-edge; she imagines being a spearhead of a strongly celibate organization is killing him slowly. “You’ve _rattled_ Jacob. _Nothing_ rattles Jacob.”

“It’s an effect I have on people,” Rook says, telling the truth. People don’t know what to do with her. She’s five-foot-five of glamorous dark brown Farrah Fawcett curls, immaculately manicured fingernails, and eyeliner wings sharp enough to fly away from her problems. Even in the middle of a cult uprising, she’s found the time and energy to maintain at least a semblance of her 12-step Korean skincare routine. She’s nothing anyone expects from a law enforcement official. But high-gloss coffin nails haven’t stopped her from maintaining peak physical fitness and admirable prowess with a variety of different weapons.

Memes happen to be one of them.

“You are un-fucking-fathomable,” John Seed drawls, like they’ve got all the time in the world for him to spit out one sentence. “I find myself craving to lay you out and carve you open, exposing each and every one of your sins and perhaps discovering the coda to the miserable symphony of your being in the tack of your blood as I paint it across your skin.”

“That escalated quickly,” Rook mutters.

There’s a pause. “What?”

"Google it,” she says, and switches her radio off.

* * *

 

“Wow,” Rook hums, watching a large blue butterfly flicker its way through the air and come to rest on her wrist. Faith twirls into her, bringing up a silk-soft hand and taking hold of Rook’s. The butterfly lifts up a little, then comes back down, alighting on their intertwined fingers.

“You can have a home here,” she says, in her peculiar tone of voice where she sounds delighted and desperately pleading at the same time. “You can be with us, with _me_ , safe from everything that’s coming, safe from the corruption of the outside world - ”

Rook untangles her hand and lifts the butterfly above her head. “Is this a pigeon?”

Faith stops cold at that, looks genuinely concerned. She turns around, standing on her tiptoes and pressing her hands against Rook’s chest for balance as she tries to peer into the taller woman’s eyes.

“Deputy?” she asks, her voice like the tinkle of a thousand little bells. “Are you alright?”

Rook shakes her head, and then her hand, watching the butterfly (is it even a _real_ butterfly?) flitter away.

“You people have no sense of humor,” she sighs, and then clocks Faith hard with her best left hook.

Frankly, some days, she’d rather _not_ be immune to the Bliss. At least then she could have a good time to counteract the bitching hangover and time loss that usually come afterward.

* * *

 

“You have _murdered_ my _family_ ,” Joseph says. He sounds like a desperate man, a broken man. “My brothers. My _sister_.”

“That must be so sad for you,” Rook responds, only half paying attention to his monologue. Most of her focus is taken up with industriously building a fort around herself with Dutch’s 7-year supply of canned food. “Alexa, play Despacito.”

She’s surprised when she wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later, throat black and purple with finger-shaped bruises. He always seems to stop himself right before going too far. Despite being handcuffed to the bed, she finds she can sit up enough to awkwardly lean against the wall and gaze across the dimly lit room at the dog calendar.

“Only 6 years, 11 months, 2 weeks and a day to go,” she rasps, mostly to test if her vocal chords are still working. “ _Yeet.”_

**Author's Note:**

> my deputy's constant internal voice, hollering from the back of her brain: DO IT FOR THE VINE
> 
> someone slid into my inbox after my last FC5 fic and gushed about how well I wrote, how much they were looking forward to my next piece, etc. To that person specifically, I would like to say: I'm sorry


End file.
